Bay of Lost Souls

BAY of 

 LOST 

 SOULS

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© 2012 by Robert H. Richey Jr. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/14/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6772-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6771-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6944-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012916828

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Contents

 I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

Epilogue

To all of the men and women who have ever put on a uniform in the defense of my country and the freedoms that I enjoy every day.

And to the warriors.

Men like my late father, Lieutenant Colonel Robert Richey USAF (Ret.), a decorated combat veteran of World War II, Korea, and Vietnam;

and

Men like Command Sergeant Major Jack Thomas, US Army (Ret.), my friend and technical advisor for this book, a decorated combat infantryman and expert marksman.

Courage is one of those indefinable qualities that you pray to God to give you in large quantities but you don’t know whether you have until you really need it. It allows ordinary men to do extraordinary things.

Lieutenant Colonel R. H. Richey,

B-17 Command Pilot, World War II

 I

October 3, 2008—My fifty-ninth birthday.

We used to have a saying in the Nam, that any day that you woke up on the right side of the dirt was a good day. I was about to find out that it isn’t necessarily true.

As I stood in the examination room of my physician’s office in Dana Point, California, I had pondered why the hell they can never give you the results of simple lab or diagnostic tests over the phone.

I’m sorry Mr. Riley, but you will have to make an appointment to see the doctor about your test results.

Yes Ma’am, will I need to bring my crypto clearance card and my decoder ring?

Without even skipping a beat, the ever efficient woman told me that the doctor didn’t mention them but "bring them with you, just in case." I guess it’s easier to get that co-pay in person than it is over the phone.

My thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of my doctor, a small energetic man whose last name contains most of the alphabet plus a hyphen or two and is unpronounceable even by his staff. Hello Doctor Y. How are you? I asked.

I am well, thank you. Mr. Riley, we have received the results of your prostate biopsy and they are positive, he said.

I was thinking, "Positive is a good thing, right? Not being absolutely sure though, I asked, What exactly does that mean?"

"It means that you have cancer," he replied. He rambled on with the clinical analysis, Gleason score, treatment options and prognosis, but I didn’t hear any of it. My brain stopped processing input at the word CANCER.

"How could he possibly be right? I was only fifty-nine years old, nobody in my family had ever had cancer, and I didn’t engage in any of the behaviors purported to increase my risk of cancer." The bottom line is, I didn’t want to have cancer and I didn’t deserve to have cancer, so maybe I didn’t have cancer.

Pleased with my own diagnosis, I vaguely recalled reading something about the fight or flight reflex in one of my college Psychology texts. The human mind has the unique ability, when faced with immediate threat of injury or death, to go into auto mode, assess the risk and immediately determine whether it is better to stand and fight or to run away. I dismissed the analogy as unrelated to my current situation and returned my attention to Doctor Y. He had stopped talking and was looking expectantly at me so I guessed it must be my turn to say something.

Well thanks Doctor, I’ll think about it and call you.

He gave me that bemused look that I used to get from my instructors when I would answer a Sociology question with information that I had read in my History text. His only response was, "Don’t wait too long."

I stepped out of his office into a beautiful fall morning in Southern California. To the west I could see the gulls wheeling over the commercial deep sea fishing vessels in the harbor, voicing their distinctive shrill cry as they search for scraps. The fog was starting to burn off and I could hear the mournful sound of the foghorn on the Dana Point jetty. I took a deep breath and convinced myself that I could smell the ocean rather than the effect that the automatic sprinklers were having on the mulch, the sidewalk, and the street.

As I set off toward the harbor, my cellphone rang. Without looking at the caller ID, I flipped it open and said, Hello.

"HOO-AH! El Bobbo. Happy Birthday."

The only person to ever call me El Bobbo, my best friend Command Sergeant Major Jack Thompson US Army (Retired) was on the line.

Hey Sergeant Major, happy birthday to you too. What the hell you been up to? Are you back in the states? I asked.

Hell no! he replied. I’m still down in Cabo, doing the security thing. My military retirement goes a lot farther down here. Next time you get some time off you ought to come down and check it out. There’s plenty of work for a guy with your skills and I have plenty of room at my place for you.

Thanks Jack, I may just take you up on that, I told him. I do have some vacation coming and it’d be nice to get away for a while. Let me tie up some loose ends and shuffle some stuff around and I’ll give you a call back.

"Great! I look forward to hearing back from you," he said. The line went dead. We never were big on good-byes or any of that other touchy-feely shit. It’s probably part of the reason that both of us are divorced.

Jack and I first met on a joint 5th Special Forces/82nd Airborne Division operation in the spring of 1967, in the Seven Mountains region of South Vietnam. I was a sniper in the 5th and Jack was in explosive ordinance disposal (EOD) for the 82nd. As testimony to his skill, he had all eight fingers and both thumbs intact (and still does). As we sat around talking about home and family, we discovered that not only did we share the same birthday, we were the same age.

In the forty years since then, including another tour in Vietnam for both of us, we’ve saved each other’s lives more than once, taken the lives of others, shared the pain of losing friends in and out of combat, and forged a bond that can only be understood by those who have been there. But every October 3rd, no matter what, one of us will call the other to say happy birthday.

Jack made a career out of the Army, putting in twenty-eight years and accumulating more hardware on the breast of his Class A uniform than I thought was possible. After he retired, he started his own very successful security consulting firm. Currently he is head of all security operations for a large chain of hotels headquartered in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, a sun-drenched resort on the southern tip of Baja California.

I followed a different path, separating from the Army after thirteen years. Much to my surprise, there wasn’t a very high demand for my MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) of Sniper in the civilian world. I spent a couple of years with the LAPD SWAT teams and then decided to put my G.I. Bill benefits to good use on a college education. After a BS in Telecommunications Engineering and Networking Technology, I spent the next twenty-five years as a Telecommunications Engineer in the Signals Intelligence (SIGINT) section of the National Security Agency (NSA) at Fort George Meade, Maryland. Upon retirement in 2007, and tired of the northeast winters, I moved to Dana Point, California where I intended to start a consulting business. After a severe dose of sticker shock in the residential and business real estate markets I decided to purchase a sailboat and live aboard in the harbor. Sailing had been my passion while living just a few miles from the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland, so it seemed a logical choice.

My short walk from the doctor’s office came to an end as I reached the C dock gate at the harbor. The fog had lifted and I could see her bobbing gently on an end tie, her sleek white lines contrasting with the dappled blue-black water.

At over fifty-four feet long and fifteen feet wide, she was larger than most of the quarters I had lived in during my Army days. I bought the boat brand new, named her Hawkeye I (Army radio call sign slang for a US sniper in Nam) and outfitted her with every amenity available. From the Kevlar reinforced hull to the salt water desalinator, she was set up for single-handed long distance ocean cruising. I had also installed the best encrypted satellite communications and radar systems for use in my consulting business.

As I climbed aboard, my thoughts returned to Jack’s invitation to visit him in Cabo. There were few reasons not to go and the news from my doctor made them seem insignificant at best. The diagnosis was a wakeup call that was causing me to re-evaluate what was important in my life. My consulting business had been successful beyond my wildest expectations and, at this particular time, all of my contractual obligations had been met. There was nothing (literally or figuratively) tying me to Dana Point other than a few lengths of three-quarter inch dock line.

I tried to recall when I had last taken any significant amount of time off from work and realized that it had been when I’d left the Army back in 1980. I closed my eyes and, soothed by the warmth of the sun on my face and the gentle motion of my boat, came to a decision. I would sail my boat to Cabo, spend some time with my best friend and deal with the cancer when I returned.

Having reached the decision to go, I began a mental list of high priority tasks that would need to be completed prior to departure. I would need to obtain the documents necessary for an extended stay in Mexico from the Consulate in Los Angeles. I would also need to pay the next couple of months slip fees to the marina if I expected the slip to be available on my return. I kept Hawkeye I in a constant state of readiness so all that was necessary in that regard was to top off the fuel and water, and get provisions aboard. I could easily depart within the week.

Sailing into Mexican waters did present some challenges, the biggest of which involved weapons and ammunition. I had always maintained my proficiency as a sniper and owned a .50 caliber Barret Model M82A1 semi-auto sniper rifle with a Leupold Mark 4 long range scope. My sidearm was a .45 caliber automatic. Both are illegal to bring into Mexico, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave them behind.

When I had first purchased my boat, I had hired a master cabinetmaker to install a hidden storage area in the cabin for my weapons and ammo. The craftsman did such an excellent job that when I had an FBI friend over for a few beers, he spent an hour looking for it and was never able to find the hidden cabinetry. I wasn’t too concerned about Mexican customs agents finding it either.

The distance from Dana Point to Cabo San Lucas is just under 800 nautical miles, a distance that Hawkeye I could easily cover in seven to nine days. While the sailing winds in Mexico are normally light and benign during the prime cruising season between November and June, there are some notable exceptions. The Pacific Coast of Baja is periodically subject to strong winds from the north, northwest, and east, as well as Pineapple Expresses from Hawaii. October was normally the last month of hurricane season for Baja, but since my weather fax showed no tropical depressions forming in the area, I shouldn’t have any hurricane issues.

Five days later, I was ready to go. I gave Jack a call on the satellite phone to let him know when to expect me. He was kind enough to let me know that, "anybody stupid enough to sail out into a damn lake where the fish are bigger than he is must have shit for brains."

"Hey, no sweat, I told him. I wasn’t planning on going swimming."

II

Having taken care of the pleasantries I fired up the 200 horsepower turbo-diesel, cast off the dock lines and eased out of the slip. As I passed out of the harbor, I unfurled the main and jib, set a course for Ensenada and shut down the diesel inboard. Winds were out of the north at twelve to fifteen knots and Hawkeye I, with auto helm engaged, sailed smoothly at seven knots.

As the sun rose the next day, I furled my sails, started the inboard and made my way into the harbor at Ensenada. Four hours later, after visiting the offices of the port Captain, Immigration, and Customs, I was duly cleared into Mexico. The Customs agents brought their drug-sniffing dog aboard and did a thorough search but, as expected, they found nothing of interest. I knew that there would be some long days ahead, so I did some minor maintenance, made sure everything was squared away and turned in early.

I was on my way before dawn the next day, putting my course 100 miles offshore to avoid major shipping lanes and kelp beds, and to take advantage of more stable wind patterns further offshore. That turned out to be the right move as winds up to twenty knots came up during the afternoon and evening. Aided by a push from moderate six to eight foot swells, Hawkeye maintained a steady eight to ten knots.

At around midnight the wind died down to the ten to fifteen knot range. I engaged the autopilot, set the radar to maximum and the alarm clock to one hour and laid down for a quick combat nap. I went to sleep immediately and didn’t wake up until the alarm went off an hour later. The night was beautiful, with a full moon and stars that seemed so close that I could reach out and touch them. Dozens of dolphins escorted the boat, their phosphorescent trails crisscrossing the boat’s wake and bow wave. As they crossed the bow at high speed, they left rocket trails of luminous green through the black water. Off their beaks and heads, showers of light emanated, causing enough glow for me to see their eyes as they swam sideways to look up at me. From the deck I could hear their high frequency squeals. I scanned the horizon and the radar, verified my position, reset the alarm clock and went below, secure in the knowledge that the autopilot and the radar could do a better job of steering and collision avoidance than a half asleep human being.

When I woke up the sun was just starting to color the horizon and I could see the faint outlines of Cedros Island about eighty miles to the east. This 4000 foot tall rock was an important waypoint for me in my trip to see Jack. It meant that I had traveled nearly 350 miles from Dana point and had almost reached my halfway point. Rather than stop at Bahia Tortuga (Turtle Bay), just south of Punta Eugena, I continued on my way.

An hour later the breeze became a stiff wind and I had trouble keeping a straight course with all the sail up, so I furled the jib. Then I crawled to the bow and clipped on a smaller, heavier sail called a working jib. As is usually the case, I had to perform this stunt right at the time when the bow was pounding up and down in an intense effort to dunk me and then throw me overboard. The wind and the sea continued to build and I got more confused. There I was, in the middle of a huge high pressure system, not a cloud in the sky and a rising barometer, so why the heavy weather?

I had forgotten one thing; those annoying local phenomena. Since they are local you usually don’t know about them until it’s too late, as in my case. As it was, the wind grew to thirty knots by sundown, the sea began to break and the swell reached twelve feet. The autopilot couldn’t handle the following seas, so I disengaged it, took the wheel and settled in, dreading the long night.

I love the wind as do most sailors, but wind, huge swells, and breaking cross seas from directly astern just wear you down. The rolling, banging of sails and rigging, crashing of stuff in cupboards and the constant bracing of the body and mind will sap the energy from any sailor. At one point shortly after sunset, I looked back and saw a swell of immense proportions rolling toward me. I had just enough time to confirm that my safety tether was securely fastened before it hit. To my surprise and immense relief, the stern of Hawkeye lifted and the boat surfed down the face of the wave at over eleven knots.

Thirteen hours later, I was still clinging to the wheel as the eastern horizon became faintly visible through the maelstrom. During Special Forces training the instructors had taken perverse glee in depriving us of sleep for days at a time, but that was a long time ago and I had been too young and cocky to give a shit. I was totally exhausted, every muscle ached and my eyes felt as though somebody had poured ground glass into them.

As the new day dawned, the swell decreased to a manageable eight feet, the wind swung around to the east, dropped to fifteen to eighteen knots and I was able to re-engage the autopilot. On a check of the radar and chart-plotter, I was amazed to see that Hawkeye had covered over 200 nautical miles since my last position fix twenty-four hours previously. I was about forty nautical miles west of Magdelena Bay, just past the elbow on Baja’s west coast. Mag Bay, as it is called, is a huge, deep, well protected harbor and I decided to make a stopover.

My boat had come through the storm unscathed but I was in need of a shower, a hot meal, and a cold drink—not necessarily in that order. I could get a good night’s sleep and an early start on the remaining 175 or so nautical miles to Cabo.

By 10:00 a.m. the Mag Bay entrance was in sight. Grey whales were blowing and lifting their tails all around the boat and dolphins were crowding around the bow. Azure skies and crystal clear water completed the picture as I dropped the hook near the small fishing village in Man o War Cove. I put my dinghy in the water and motored ashore for hot fish tacos, ice cold Tecate beer, and the aforementioned hot shower.

Re-invigorated (and slightly hung over), I was back underway by 6:00 o’clock the next morning. Winds were out of the east at an ideal twelve to fifteen knots, the skies were a deep clear blue and Hawkeye made a steady eight knots. Around noon I decided to engage the auto-pilot. I checked the radar, logged my position, scanned the horizon and went below for a nap.

And just for the record, I don’t need a nappy time every day, but hey, I’d been getting a lot of exercise. It seemed like I had been asleep for all of half a minute when I heard a tremendous crash and the whole boat shuddered as if it had been hit by a torpedo. What the Hell! Had I run over a whale or collided with a submarine? I dove out of my bunk and lurched up the companionway ladder. As I reached the cockpit, I looked aft and saw a huge, partially submerged log drifting away in my wake. "Shit!" The damn thing must have been at least sixty feet long and close to three feet in diameter. How in the hell had I managed to hit a gigantic toothpick in the sixty-four million square miles of the Pacific Ocean? As I came to my senses, I realized that how it had happened wasn’t nearly as important as what kind of damage it had inflicted on the only thing that kept me from becoming shark food; my boat.

The boat didn’t seem to be listing and a check of the bilges didn’t reveal any flooding. When I checked the stuffing box on the prop shaft though, I found it was dripping at a much higher rate than it usually did. As I tightened the packing nuts to stop the leak, my mind painted a disturbing picture of the possibility of a bent or completely sheared output shaft or prop. After I hove to (stalled the boat), I went to the dive locker and grabbed my fins, mask, and safety harness. After a quick trip up the mast in the bosons’ chair and a binocular search for any other water hazards, I was ready to inspect the hull.

I snapped my harness tether into the binnacle, donned my mask and fins and went over the side. The water was a deep, cerulean blue and the sun’s rays turned my bubbles into scintillating, multi-faceted diamonds that seemed to pulsate as they rose to the surface and burst. I started at the bow and worked my way aft; finding a few deep scratches and other cosmetic damage to the reinforced Kevlar hull, but when I reached the stern it was a different story. My eleven inch five-bladed bronze propeller was now a distorted, three and one half bladed prop. If I’d had the motor running, there probably wouldn’t have been any blades left but fortunately, there didn’t appear to be any damage to the shaft or rudder assembly.

I climbed back aboard, changed into dry clothes and punched up Jack’s number on the sat-phone. He answered on the first tone. "Yo, El Bobbo, you’re early. I haven’t even thrown out all of the chicks yet."

Hey, you don’t fool me, old man, I told him, The only chicks you’re sleeping with are pelicans and sea gulls. Anyway, I didn’t call to shoot the shit about your girlfriend’s anatomy; this is a triple-A call. Unlike the Auto Club, our triple-A calls referred to the lengths to which we would go for each other. Anything, Anytime, Anywhere with no questions asked.

Immediately, the voice of my best friend was replaced by that of Command Sergeant Major Jack Thompson, US Army. "Copy that, Spooky. Can you transmit in the clear?" Through numerous firefights, bar-fights, fistfights, and serious deep-shit encounters with the enemy, Jack and I had developed our own secure communications system. My radio call sign was Spooky and his was Fingers, both for obvious reasons. What Jack had just asked me was whether or not I could speak freely, without duress from outside sources. If I answered in the negative, we would go to a series of clicks, beeps, and facts from our past or other nonsense bullshit that only we would be likely to understand.

That’s affirmative, Fingers. I ran over a tree and need to replace my prop, I